


The Maid and the Bear

by Cyber_Witch



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Humor, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7346638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyber_Witch/pseuds/Cyber_Witch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief POV of when Brienne arrives with Sansa at Castle Black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where, if anywhere, I'm going with this, but I wanted to write the brief scene, and an additional one, from her point of view, with some creative license.

She knew she would get looks. She was used to the stares, the leers, the comments muttered or spoken aloud. But the maid of Tarth didn’t give a damn. _She had Sansa Stark!_ Wonder of wonders that she’d found her alive, and in the company of that Ironborn man, or what was left of him. He was clearly broken beyond fixing, but, she could bear no ill will toward that one, he had ensured Sansa’s safety after all. Still, she was just as glad to see him gone.

When Brienne passed through the crow gate at Castle Black, she assumed, that despite everything, she would be noticed or ignored, or assumed to be a man, but she was in such a mood that little could shake her. If only Catelyn Stark could see that her eldest daughter yet lived, that she was safe and would forever be safe for as long as Brienne remained at her side. If only… but for now, Brienne would settle for a warm meal, a drink, and somewhere she could stay near the Stark girl. She didn’t like the look of some of these men behind the gates, and she could only imagine the horrors that Sansa had lived before she was found in the cold woods half-frozen in damp clothing. Brienne could certainly imagine.

She received stares, yes, but apart from one gormless flame-bearded fool who outright _gawked_ at her as if she were the Mother herself riding naked through the gates, Brienne only had eyes for her horse, likely more exhausted than she. Respectfully, she spared little attention to the long-overdue reunion of the lady Stark with her half-brother, and she caught the corner of her mouth hitching in sympathetic relief. She liked Jon Snow well enough. He was reliable and true in a world where such a thing would get one killed quicker than any other virtue, yet he’d managed to avoid death this far. Brienne took that for a good omen and a sign of his trustworthiness.

“Ser, I’ll tend to the horses if you’d like,” Podrick said then, swinging one leg over the saddle and lowering himself to the ground, already reaching for her horse’s reins. He was clearly exhausted -they’d been riding for hours, long enough that her thighs chafed something fierce, and she knew he fared little better. Good lad, Pod. Brienne didn’t want to infringe upon the Stark reunion, however, and Pod had truly earned some manner of comfort after the bravery he’d shown against Bolton’s men. It wasn’t so long ago that he could barely lift a sword, let alone kill a man. Now, he was on his way to becoming something like a real squire.

“I’ll do it, Pod. Get something warm to eat, I’ll be in as soon as they’re seen to.” She’d meant to sound kind, maybe even appreciative, but as always, the end result seemed gruff. As an afterthought, she added, “you did well. In the woods.”

Pod smiled, the light in his tired eyes shining at her praise despite his weariness. He’d never been put off by her demeanor, and maybe that was how he’d managed to gain ground within her regard. She would be loathe to admit it to him, but she’d grown fond of him, and seeing his pleasure at her praise gave her a sense of fulfilment. He gave a hesitant bow of his head before allowing a Night’s Watchman to lead him up the steps to an entrance where he might get warm by a fire.

Brienne would join him soon enough. But first, she’d make sure that the horses were comfortable and well fed, and that they wouldn’t end up as a meal to one of these wild folk. She really didn’t know what to think, as she glanced surreptitiously to the surprising number of non-brothers present within the courtyard walls of Castle Black. And that damned flame-beard was still there across the yard, gaping as though he’d been kicked dumb by a horse. She deliberately didn’t look at him. A young crow helped her bring the horses to the stable where she set to work removing the saddles and riding gear by herself, brushing the burrs and the dirt from their coats, all the while speaking soothingly to the horses until they began to trust their new surroundings. It was a soothing task, bringing comfort to simpler beings, and it gave her time to think.

Wherever Sansa decided they go, Brienne would be her steel. She would slay a thousand-thousand Boltons if it brought the girl- nay, the young woman as could be seen by the age she’d gained in her eyes- even the tiniest measure of comfort. She would enjoy it, too.

A small draft blew in through a crack in the door and Brienne shivered and unconsciously began to rub her sore shoulder, or what she could reach beneath the neck ring. She was now nearly ready to go inside the keep and get some of this plate off. She heard a noise by the door.

Before thought, Oathkeeper was out, held at a low angle, and she faced the cause of the sound. When she laid eyes upon that very same dark-eyed, red-maned wildling man standing there just inside the door, she didn’t move to resheathe her blade, though she did allow it to sink slightly lower to the ground. A few seconds passed and the man barely blinked his wide eyes. Neither moved nor spoke.

Brienne was the first to turn away, keeping her profile to him as she casually pulled an oiled cloth from the saddlebag hanging next to her horse’s stall. She kept him solidly in her peripheral vision as she feigned to ignore him. Directing Oathbreaker away from him, point to the back of the stable, she began to draw the cloth along its length, paying careful attention to the channel and the seam where the blade met the crossguards. This was as worthy a task as any until she learned of his intentions. It would do him well to see the weapon and how easily she held it. By her measure he was here for one or all of three reasons, none of them to her benefit. She’d already dealt enough death blows this day, but if this fool thought to add himself to the tally, Brienne would do him the honor herself. She would gladly face any that showed themselves to be a potential danger to Lady Sansa.

 “Ay, she handles beast and blade well alike,” a man’s voice sounded above the crunching of hay and the shuffling of half a dozen steeds in their stalls. The voice was deep. And gruff. She cast a look of bafflement in his direction. He wore the same gormless expression, his wide eyes on hers unblinkingly. “All would die glad if you be their last sight.”

It took a moment for the words to register and her bafflement turned to disgust. His mouth was slack in his wild beard and his open gaze was on her face. Like as her prediction, he’d fulfilled one of her three expectations. This one was the coward fool, who meant to commit injury with words. He was beneath her and his petty jibe did not deserve her full attention. She glanced briefly, with longing, at the stool she saw before the next stall over and then carefully sheathed her sword. If he thought to add weapon to words, Oathbreaker would be out again before he could blink and she _would_ be the last thing he’d ever see. She felt that should tell him as much, and end this now.

 She turned to say something to him, something dismissive to show that she was both unaffected by his disguised contempt and well-armed enough to return a jibe, but he was gone, the door of the stables closing as she observed. Her mouth closed. Like the thief he likely was, he’d stolen away without a sound.

Brienne shrugged it off, though her brow was still troubled. She would make sure that one of the Night’s Watch guarded the horses tonight. For now, she was too tired and hungry to care about anything except getting into something more comfortable and enjoying the pleasure of a warm meal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne loses her appetite.

The confrontation between the red witch and the onion knight was tense. It took much of Brienne’s will to keep from executing the woman there, avenging the foul and untimely end of the only honorable man who’d truly earned her loyalty and her love. Being close enough to her to breathe the same air made her stomach curdle. To think of the horrors she’d set upon the land, and all the evil she represented and inspired in others. Yet there she stood, brazenly alive when far more deserving souls were forever gone from this world.

 She lacked an appetite, haunted by thoughts of unfulfilled oaths and justice undealt, but she knew that she needed to eat. Around her in the mess, all took to their meal ravenously, low sporadic conversation could be heard murmured amongst the sounds of many mouths eating.

 Try as she might, the weight of the world and her role in it kept being unseated by a more present problem. This problem was sitting across from her now, eating.

 Noisily.

She’d attempted to choose a place somewhere that didn’t provide him, or any other undesirable, the opportunity to sit near her. Unfortunately, as the first in a series of unpleasant occurrences, that place was only temporarily occupied. The brother sitting there left, and another took his place. Now, directly opposite her, sat the flame-bearded wildling man.

 Brienne could only avoid looking for so long, but in her peripheral it seemed that he never _stopped_ staring at her, not even to blink. She stirred the stew around on her plate listlessly, trying to brood. But Melisandre’s crimson hair and her vile face were repeatedly supplanted by the redhead before her now.

 When she did finally risk a quick look, she met his muddy green eyes. They were wide as ever and focused entirely on hers as he messily and noisily enjoyed the shank of flavorless meat. Her upper lip twitched involuntarily at the sight of his grease-slicked maw as he gulped down chunks. And he was pointedly watching her, as though something about the display might actually, incomprehensibly prove appealing to her. The abhorrent ingurgitation of his food, some of which inevitably ended up in the unkempt mane about his face, was truly no more artless than the manners of some of the other men present. But at this particular table, that of the Lord Commander and Steward, the very table at which Lady Sansa now supped, he was entirely out of place.

 No one but Brienne seemed to notice his crude lack of protocol. She was known to forgo etiquette when on the road, or in a hurry, or if the setting demanded that she blend in with common folk. She wasn’t unduly attached to high-bred decorum in that way. But now, in the presence of Sansa Stark, by all rights and oath her Lady, to whom she had devoted her life and undying loyalty, some ceremony was important. Especially in setting her company apart from the former criminals and rapers and paupers that now filled the ranks of the Night’s Watch.

 Worse still than his atrocious table manners was the fact that his keen preoccupation with her did not go unnoticed by all. The Steward referred to by the name "Dolorous" Edd, had certainly taken note of the none-too-subtle assault on her ability to maintain her composure under such conditions.

 To the wild man’s credit, and any credit given was well overpaid, he was persistent. And loud.

She forked a piece of potato and forced herself to swallow it. It nearly came up again at the sound of his moist and enthusiastic mastication. This food must have been fine fare compared to the frozen tree rat he was probably accustomed to, according to the impression he was currently giving.

 What was he playing at? Usually those tormenting her didn’t drag it on for very long, too hungry for a quick payoff and a reaction. Upon hearing him gulp his garbage swill ale and then belch, she gave up moving her food around and dropped her fork to the plate. It sounded as though he’d made _some_ effort to suppress the gaseous discharge, but that had only made it worse.

 Something solid reintroduced itself, rising in the back of her throat and she swallowed it down again. With that, she stood up, and with her lady’s leave, planned to make a quick exit, dishes in hand. She saw Podrick, mid-bite, stand to join her, or take her dishes, or something. Quietly, she raised a hand to stop him, just wanting this unbearable meal to end without a fuss.

To her utter horror, the flame-beard took the opportunity and jumped up, circled around the table as eager as, well, as Pod might have been had she not stopped him.

With an audacity unequalled by many, he was suddenly reaching for her meal remnants, his greasy fingers coming far too close to her arm for her comfort.

“Are you _mad_?” Brienne demanded in a low tone, disgusted by his impropriety. He looked confused, bemused. One brow popped up. Again, he made to take them from her. What she’d originally assumed was his want of her uneaten portion was now clearly an attempt to clear her dishes for her.

 Brienne snapped the dishes to her body, clutching them as though they were a precious bounty and he a brazen thief, suddenly very protective of her bland stewed tubers and greyish roasted meat lumps.

“I’ve _got_ it,” she said tersely through her teeth. Both of his brows were up now, and a quick look over his shoulder was rewarded with an anonymous snigger. She spared a bewildered, incredulous look to the others seated. Those sitting further stared, frozen, while the others nearest to them were oblivious or at least playing at it. Edd was deliberately eating with his hand propping up, and covering, his forehead and eyes, as if he could remove himself entirely from the exchange. Sansa and Jon were all but absorbed in the hushed collusions of long separated siblings, none the wiser for what was happening. Brienne straightened her back and walked away.

She practically threw the soiled dishes in the scullery bucket, narrowly missing the young watchman recruit currently holding it, and exited the hall with a swiftness that was utterly contradictory to her weariness. Humiliating.

It wasn’t until she’d left the hall that she realized that her troubled thoughts had been absent during the meal, thanks to that tenacious distraction. She snorted once quietly to herself. Her amusement was short-lived. It would have been too easy to think of him as an idiot, but his words earlier showed that at least some of his brain was functioning, if not the parts responsible for common sense.

 This was disquieting more than anything else he’d done. His behavior was contrary to that of both a cruel japer and a hollow-brained buffoon gaping at her unusual stature and bearing. Which left a third possibility, that such a creature actually had designs on her.

 She’d been the object of offensive fixation before, her great height and strong frame making her a target for men seeking novelty or boasting rights. Something about the red-mane didn’t fit with that lot, either, though. His utter shamelessness was more that of a dauntless would-be suitor than an acquisitive lech.

It didn’t matter. She had no interest in him or his ilk. She would be leaving this place with Sansa before long and together they would retake Winterfell. She longed to burn the banners of the Flayed Man and return that of the Direwolf to its rightful place, and she was more than ready to leave Castle Black far behind.

 She washed up, trying her best not to think of those greasy, hairy lips making advances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She really doesn't like him it seems :)


	3. Chapter 3

Morning arrived cold, dark, and grey, much like every day had done ever since Brienne entered the regions of the north. Pod had cleaned and shined her armor and it now sat waiting for her. She imagined the lad was still sleeping, but judging by the light outside it was scarcely dawn. She decided to give him some more time to rest while she mentally prepared herself to step out into the cold again.

She roused Pod and headed out to the yard, brushing aside his concerns about breakfast. He rallied, though, even though she knew he was hungry and still half asleep. It was the perfect time to attempt some more combat training with him, and she picked an empty area free of young crows in their own combat drills. Mild protests about his soreness from their encounter with the Bolton men were quashed when she pointed out that the enemy won’t wait until one is refreshed before attacking anew. And with war constantly on the verge of breaking in every part of Westeros, readiness was the only virtue.

“No, Pod, your stance is too narrow. A small breeze could knock you on your back. Try again,” she said stepping back, wooden practice sword at the ready. The young man climbed to his feet. He was covered in frigid mud, and while Brienne felt for him, this was good for him. “You must always be prepared. Show me the same man I saw in the woods the other day. Show me the Bolton-slayer.”

Her praise, as usual, seemed to inject new life into him. Of course, he got overconfident and lunged when he should have parried and took a harsh bruise on his shoulder. _This_ was why she was so sparing with the positive remarks.

Some black brothers had emerged at some point to watch, though it was more of a lighthearted entertainment than a real match, and Brienne was starting to feel bad for the lad. With a wary glance to see wildlings amongst the crows, she loosened her stance and straightened up.

“That’s enough for now, Pod. Get cleaned up, and be ready to leave on a moment’s notice.” Pod nodded, out of breath and walked off in a hurried limp.

Brienne was still feeling a bit riled. Exercise with Pod was equally an exercise in her patience and restraint, but what she needed was to beat the tar out of something. With a wary sideways glance, she thought she might see just the something approaching now.

His breaths made faint puffs of moisture in the air ahead of him and his red beard was already dusted with collected frost. Brienne immediately looked away, unconcerned with his presence but well aware of his bootsteps squelching in the mud. She walked to the practice weapon stand and deposited the wooden sword as the rest of the activity in the yard commenced. She was grateful for the lack of audience this time.

“Good day to you, Lady Brienne of Tarth,” he said, sounding stilted in the formality. Brienne rolled her eyes but didn’t correct him in the use of the title ‘lady,’ nor did she face him. He wasn’t worth the effort. So he’d learned her name. it was better than the wordless slavering or the poetic ramblings. She knew his name, too. And a small part of her brain, always on the ready for future insult, could predict what sort of jokes might be said about them, should she allow this farce to continue.

“What’s good about it?” she said in a sharp voice as she wiped the splattered mud from her gloves onto a rag.

“We’re still alive. For now.”

She finally turned toward him and held his stare. She didn’t waver, and made a show of looking down on him.

“I have no time for fools. The last man that tried my patience is now rotting in a ditch.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said with a grin, looking her up and down. Brienne’s lip twitched. She didn’t need this.

“What do you want, wildling?”

He shrugged.

“To apologize.”

Brienne stared. Before she could speak, he continued. “I’m not some… green spring buck, looking to rut, my lady. In fact, among my folk, I’m prince bloody charming.”

Brienne snorted before she could stop herself. Unfazed, he continued.

“But the moment I lay eyes on you, I lost my words. You’re… the prettiest lass I’ve ever seen.”

The urgent sincerity of his words now gave her pause. She glanced down, unnerved by his unwavering stare and the way his mouth fell open as he spoke, as though he couldn’t get enough breath.

“I await your jape, wildling. Best get to it sooner rather than later.”

He shook his head and took a small, squelching step toward her.

“Nay, lady Tarth. There be no tricks here. Where I come from, a strong woman, a woman who will kill any that cross ‘er - a woman who _fights_ -those’re the ones worth their salt.”

An unsettling quaking feeling had emerged in the area between her chest and stomach and Brienne hardened her jaw against it. She was getting cold standing there in the yard, that was all. The exercise with Pod had done little to settle her nerves and pent up frustrations.

“You haven’t seen me fight yet, wildling,” she said, feeling a bit wicked. Her uncertainty and restlessness was transforming into something more selfsure. Tormund’s eyes, a rich medium blue that looked dark against his starkly pale face, widened.

“Aye. But I can see as plain as any that you’ve faced death, and that you’ve walked away from it victorious. More’n once, I’d wager.” His voice lowered to a near growl. “I can almost smell it on you, the scent of battle. No perfume is sweeter.”

The trembling got worse and now a faint queasiness was beginning to set in. She hid this by straightening her posture, holding her chin up, and glaring. It would have been more impressive with Oathkeeper at her side.

“If you intend to keep pestering me, you might have the chance to see my skills firsthand,” she said with narrowed eyes, hoping her threat was plain enough for him. The corners of his mouth twitched under his beard, but still the man looked undeterred. He settled back in his stance and hooked his hands on one of the belts holding his furs on his waist.

“I hope I do. It would be far better to fight at your side, Lady Tarth.”

Brienne growled in her throat, no longer willing to weather the use of her formal title by him. Somehow, when he said it, it sounded mocking and unnatural.

“Call me Brienne, wildling, or call me nothing at all.”

“Tormund. Giantsbane,” he responded with a wide grin. Those white teeth flashed, a strange sight on a northern wild man. They were almost as bright as Jaime’s. She closed her eyes against the unwelcome pang she felt to think of him.

“On second thought, I’d prefer that you didn’t speak to me at all.”

She didn’t give him a chance to respond before she turned and walked out of the yard. She’d already spent too much time speaking to him when there was work to be done. Where was Pod anyway? The boy could use more work on his balance. Remembering that she’d sent him to wash up after their morning’s spar, she decided to find Lady Sansa and see if she needed her.

But when the raven arrived with the message, sealed with the Bolton sigil, Brienne knew that she might be needed  sooner rather than later.

At her invitation, Brienne supped the midday meal with Sansa and Jon. Dolorous Edd and Tormund were present as well, surprising her to see that the flamebeard was someone of important standing to Jon.

All thoughts of the vexing man, and his idiotic infatuation were forgotten as Jon read the missive. A cold hand gripped Brienne’s heart, and that of all present, as Sansa insisted on reading the rest of the Bolton boy’s threat. Sansa was proud and could see through her half brother’s attempt to protect her. It was too late for that, she had already suffered at the hands of that monster. Sansa, as many women in dire circumstances beyond their control, knew well the cruelty of men. There was nothing that Jon could protect her from that she had not already seen or experienced. The horror and sympathy Brienne felt as she looked upon Sansa’s face made her stomach tighten into a knot.

No one seemed able to, or interested in, finishing their food after that, even when their strategizing took them well into the day.

\----

Even, measured strikes echoed against the inner walls of the yard. Oathkeeper left gashes in the wooden practice dummy, its hay-stuffed fabric body splitting along the trail left by her blade. She was not acting in temper. She had full control over herself. And she was going to destroy the training dummy. They could find another; it looked cobbled together anyway, with whatever had been laying around, hardly of great value.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes alight with fervor as her thoughts went in a loop. Over and over, she thought of the words in the message. Over and over, she thought of what she would like to do to the creature that had penned it. Perhaps with Sansa’s help.

The Lady Stark wasn’t the same delicate maiden she’d once been. She had the fierceness in her eyes that her mother had possessed. She had the hardness of a northerner, but the spirit of her southern-bred mother.  She’d survived treatment that might have killed a lesser woman, or sent her to suicidal despair.

But still, her decision that they separate had been hard to stomach.

But she was not in a temper. She simply needed to be prepared for whatever came her way. Her Lady had given her an order, and Brienne would obey to the best of her ability and beyond. One way or another, she would secure aid from the Blackfish. She couldn’t fail her. Much more was at stake than Brienne’s honor. At stake was the Stark bloodline, and the fate of an entire people. Oathkeeper severed the dummy’s wooden pole arm and it hit the mud with a wet splat. The entire thing was now listing to the side, and slowly it tipped face down atop the severed limb. She imagined Ramsay Bolton’s face, doubtless ugly and twisted as his character, bleeding in the mud where the hay lay scattered.

She realized she was breathing hard, rasping breaths and forced herself to slow them. She closed her eyes, took measure of herself. Perhaps she’d been a little too enthusiastic after all. A quick look around the near empty space reassured her that she had no witnesses, or any that had seen her had chosen to make themselves scarce. She looked at the sad dummy, feeling unsatisfied and even somewhat guilty. She sheathed Oathkeeper and picked up the tattered dummy, and its severed arm, and dragged it to the wall where she leaned it before clopping up the steps to the castle.

\----

 

 

 

 


End file.
